


Let's Make It

by Ravenspear



Series: Hell Ain't A Bad Place To Be [3]
Category: Incredible Hulk (2008), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Gen, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 18:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenspear/pseuds/Ravenspear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bruce wakes to his newfound freedom twice, with varying results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Make It

Bruce wakes to darkness and warmth and a sense of lightness. No sharp lights that burn his eyes even through his eyelids, stinging even in his sleep. No cold air rushing in through vents, white noise and a temperature only just low enough to keep him always shivering. No straitjacket, no straps, chafing and constricting and choking.

Bruce wakes, and it's with a delirious, desperate relief that he thinks _I'm dead I'm dead God thank you thank you thank you_.

He basks in the blissful conviction that everything’s _over_. That he’s free, released; no needles, no knives, no gas, no mindless roars behind his eyes, raging, raging, raging and tearing him apart from the inside. He’s dead, and it’s done, and the joy that unfolds inside his chest is the equations for the curve of his mother’s smile when she sang him asleep and the increase in Betty’s heart rate per second when he kissed her that first time, perfect and true.

It doesn't last, because nothing good ever does. Relief is only ever temporary, fleeting; something to make him hope, before that hope is smashed and everything hurts again. Lucidity slams into him like violence, like pain, _like the knives when they carved his arm open so they could see his bones as he changed and he screamed and screamed and screamed and they didn't-_

He isn't dead, and this realization tears a sob from this throat, and it feels like claws against abused vocal cords, like he's wept and swallowed his tears, and he has, for years and years, ever since _"It's just to make you sleep. It's alright. I'm taking you somewhere safe."_ and the sob this time makes him choke. He isn't dead, and the _Other One_ stirs, moves in the gloom of Bruce’s mind like a predator, waiting with sharp, vicious eyes, and Bruce wants to scream, but can’t, because he needs to _breathe_ , to _focus_ , to _not let him loose_.

So he doesn’t scream, swallows the noise, buries it deep in his chest ( _in the wet and the red and the blue that they’d cracked his ribcage open to poke and prod and study-_ ) where they won’t break free, break _him_ free, where they won’t draw any _attention_ , because _they’re always watching, always, always, always, and they don’t care about your tears, they never do-_

Instead he weeps, chokes on dry, rasping sobs, breath coming in shallow, painfully quiet gasps as he curls in on himself ( _protect your core, he’ll get tired soon, just make sure you don’t need a doctor afterwards, that there are no marks you can’t explain away-_ ), makes himself small as he shakes apart, and the Other One howls and howls, like _saws against bone, drills into his spine-_ and when the _greenpurpleblack_ starts closing in at the edges of his vision, he welcomes it, reaches for it desperately, holds his breath and wraps himself in unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

Bruce wakes to dim morning filtering in through white drapes, so unlike anything he’s seen for so very long. He’s mesmerized by it, by the softness of the light, how the fabric billows gently with a mellow breeze that smells like _outside_ and _before_. It’s a mind-blowing, impossible thing, but he can see it, feel it, breathe it in and hold it, and the calm that’s settled over him is deep and rapturous.

After a while, other perceptions begin filtering in. The polished shine of the wooden floor, reflecting a narrow stripe of morning sunlight underneath the drapes. The soft damask pattern of the wallpaper. The smoothness of sheets against his skin.

The faint breath of someone _else_ in the room, and Bruce sits up as quickly as his tired, abused body allows.

He’s not sure what he expects ( _except he is, because lab coats, uniforms, suits, open eyes, neutral faces, no compassion, no mercy-_ ), but it isn’t this.

There’s a man sleeping in a chair on the other side of the bed, clumsily curled up on oxblood leather, neck at an awkward angle, hair a ruffled mess, soft snuffling snores with every fourth breath, and... and a glow from underneath his shirt, where his heart would be, blue and steady and- _“I got you out. You’re out. And you’re not going back in.”_ A smile; friendly, brilliant, fearless, _human_. Hands; hard and cold, but gentle and don’t raise bruises. And... and eyes, tortured and downcast. A voice, low and shaky. _”There’s a line. There has to be. And they crossed it.”_

_"I'm Tony Stark, your knight in shining power armor. And I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance."_

Bruce swallows, throat dry. Feels hollow, like his chest is empty, like he’s not sure what emotions he should fill up his soul with.

He just watches this man - this man who has _saved_ him - sleep by Bruce’s bedside, like he’d wanted to be _close_ , like he hadn’t wanted to let Bruce wake _alone_.

He watches Tony Stark sleep; watches how his fingers twitch, how his ribcage moves softly, shallowly up and down, watches the muted glow in his chest.

When Bruce looks back to his face, Stark’s eyes are open. “Good morning,” he says, so normal, like Bruce does this, like Bruce is in any way normal.

“Good morning,” he replies, because he’s always been well-mannered. Because his mother taught him right.

Stark doesn’t say anything for long minutes. Just watches him, and Bruce usually _hates_ this, being _studied_ , but for all of Stark’s calm, there are feelings in the corners of his eyes that make Bruce’s skin settle. No one has _felt_ anything for Bruce Banner in a long time.

“So now that you’re finally awake, I’d like to take you to California pretty immediately, if you don’t have any objections,” Stark says, voice flippant, but there are still shadows lurking in his eyes. “Because I’m not really a _fan_ of Arizona, and my house is _so_ much cooler than a hotel.” When Bruce doesn’t answer, Stark seems to take this as agreement, and unfolds himself from the chair. “Awesome. I’ll call and get the jet prepared for take-off. And have room service send up some food.” He pauses to look at Bruce, and frowns. “ _All_ the food,” he corrects himself as he turns away and heads towards the door. “Except for waffles. I hate waffles. So if you like waffles, too bad.”

And as Stark turns away fully, pulling up his phone to his ear and starting to order people around like it’s the thing he enjoys most in the entire world, Bruce decides that maybe he’s supposed to fill his empty chest up with _gratitude_.


End file.
